


Warm Me

by gentlewhumping



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Aurors, Camping, Cold, Good Draco Malfoy, How Do I Tag, Huddling For Warmth, I Tried, Light Angst, Literal Sleeping Together, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining, Possibly Pre-Slash, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Sharing a Bed, Why Did I Write This?, kind of, unnamed emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:07:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25581835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlewhumping/pseuds/gentlewhumping
Summary: The way the warmth seemed to curl through his skin and lap at his bones almost made him angry. It was a late spring night, and the weather was fair. But Draco shivered, long and slow, and pressed back into the warmth. When the sun came up he would never think of this moment of weakness, of absurdity, again.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	Warm Me

He never realized how cold he was.

Or maybe it was just that Harry was insufferably warm.

It didn't matter either way, really, because the effect was the same. Draco shivered, long and slow, and carefully pressed his back to Harry's chest once more.

He would remove himself before Harry woke. He would shift as far away as the mat would allow, and he would never think of this moment of weakness, of absurdity, again. If he didn't, Harry very well might hex him. _Hell,_ Draco thought, _I might be inclined to hex myself._

Though, if Draco were so inclined (and he was), he could blame this entire series of events on Harry. It was Harry's fault that his partner was injured, so it was Harry's fault that Draco had to fill in for him on this excursion. Hunting down a witch or wizard that was killing centaurs... Draco had complained about the task ("Can't they tend to themselves?" "We exist to help _all_ magical kinds") and about his partnership with Harry ("Sir, given Potter and I's history, I can't see it to be a wise decision to partner us up like this, especially on such an... involved case." "Well, Mr. Malfoy, I don't see any new cases coming across your desk, do I? Or is it that you were expecting to be paid to sit around, floating avian origamis about your office?"), but naturally nothing came of it. So, mouth set into a bitter frown, Draco found himself impatiently waiting outside Harry's office door.

"Right, let's get on with it then," Harry said in lieu of a proper greeting as he closed his office door behind him.

Draco, while able to suppress a scoff, did nothing to mask the roll of his eyes. "Well, hello to you too, Potter." They might work in the same department, but aurors came and went and kept to themselves enough that their brief encounters were often kept to a slight head nod and hello on a good day, a purposeful shoulder check or snide (yet wholly unharmful, if one were to be honest) remark on a bad. Maybe it was juvenile, but neither seemed to bother with keeping up the semblance that they weren't.

Harry had stood trial in favor of Draco and his mother. Narcissa had lied to Voldemort's face to keep Harry alive. Draco had lied to a room of death eaters that he couldn't identify Harry Potter. Draco had armed him, leaving himself defenseless in a war. Harry did not testify on behalf of Draco's father, however. And how would he? Lucius had done nothing but aid Voldemort to the end. Draco was not in Azkaban. He was able to have a career, fighting the very types of witches and wizards he had once stood in alliance with. His mother, too, was spared Azkaban, able to retire away from the public eye, her shame only trumped by her drive to better herself, though in private it may be. His father was sent to Azkaban, and he wasn't certain how to feel about it. It was easier, he found, to simply pretend his father was dead. At least then, he wouldn't have to stifle his pained, choked grievances as he thought about what was happening to his father there.

"Thank you," Narcissa told Harry after the trials.

"You've done the same for me," Harry replied. Not _you would have_ , but _you have_. Narcissa nodded in understanding, and swept Draco away into a secure, dark colored vehicle.

Draco hadn't spoken then. Hadn't been able to. He was too emotional, too exhausted, too too too...

The next time he saw Harry, it was at a small shop in Diagon Alley. He was perusing robes. Draco didn't know what to say, and so he was prepared to turn and leave, his own purchase deemed suddenly unimportant, but Harry caught a glimpse of him.

"Malfoy."

Malfoy, not Draco. He had addressed him as Draco during the trials, to assist the record keeper in clarifying which Malfoy he was referring to in different defenses.

"Potter." It came easily, yet far too difficult. Draco considered what he could say, but came up rather empty. It seemed there was truly nothing _to_ say.

"How's your mum?" Ah. There was something to say.

"Better." Better than what, Draco didn't bother to elaborate. And again, Draco found himself lacking words.

And again, Harry supplied the conversation. "That's good. You've both kept yourselves out of the news. That's impressive, given I can't seem to get Skeeter or her ten copycats out of my hair."

"Well, maybe if you brushed it," Draco heard the opening, and took it, desperate for that familiar dialogue over whatever this idle chatter was. "Sorry that my mother and I haven't shared the front page with you." He said it with a small flare of his old schoolboy attitude, and he was satisfied.

Until Harry laughed. It was a short, half-hearted thing, but a laugh all the same. Not a sneer, not a defense. A world-weary chuckle, as though he had expected nothing less from Draco. It made him feel small. "Right, a guy like you would want the whole page to himself, wouldn't you?"

The comment didn't sting. Draco used to be extremely attention-crazed, always wanting all eyes on him, always wanting to be admired. That was simply his way, as a child, and Harry knew it as well as anyone. Draco didn't know if he should smile or scowl. He didn't even know which he wanted to do. It resulted in him furrowing his brow and forming a tight line with his mouth. He didn't know what emotion he was conveying, if any at all. That made him feel small, too. If he were being honest, Draco had felt small for a very long time. Before the trials. Before the war. Before receiving the Dark Mark. Maybe that’s why he had craved attention, status, power. Maybe he had always felt small, and only now that everything had been stripped from him he could see that. The line of thinking gave him a headache, and so he abandoned it. It didn’t matter anyways. Draco couldn’t remember if he had verbally replied to Harry. If he had, it wouldn’t have been anything of significance.

Harry paid for his robes and left, then, with only the faintest of farewells tossed in Draco's general direction. Draco didn't return the goodbye; at least, he didn't think to before Harry was already out the door. Draco wondered, not for the first time since meeting Harry,what a conversation with him would look like as friends. But the thought made him acutely aware of the black skull and serpent still branded in his arm, the psychological itch forcing him to cool the irritation with his opposite hand's nails.

Draco forgot what he had come to the store for.

The next time Draco saw Harry, he was being shown to an empty (although judging by the box Harry was carrying, soon to be filled) office. Draco dithered for a long moment, indecisive, before finally approaching the office (Harry's office).

"Well well, what have we here?" Words came easier now. Time had helped. Maybe Draco wasn’t completely devoid of himself.

Harry jumped, earning a small, childish smirk from Draco. It was so much easier, with Harry, to just pretend they were a couple of mean-spirited kids. They weren't. They were adults, co-workers now, who had too much history and not enough... not enough something. But it was easier, and Draco could find words.

"Merlin, Malfoy, what in the-" Harry seemed utterly perplexed. "What are you doing here?"

"Talking to you, of course," Draco replied, "I'm an auror, which I imagine comes as a bit of a surprise..."

"No shit," Harry replied. It wasn't malicious, simply surprised.

"Yes, well, it wasn't my idea, you know, but mother insisted it was an offer I shouldn't refuse..." Draco examined his nails while talking. They were a bit shorter than he preferred them, but it was a practical decision. He didn't want to scratch his arm into a bloody mess, now did he? The thought in and of itself almost sent him scratching again, but he refrained, instead continuing his conversation with Harry. "I plan to leave here when a position at St. Mungo's opens up. Apparently after- after the war, quite a few people wanted to become healers and mediwizards." Draco tried not to allow bitterness into his voice. It was ridiculous, he knew, to complain about a job he wanted when the job he currently had was highly competitive and, frankly, a godsend for reforming his reputation.

"You want to be a healer?" Harry asked, incredulous.

Draco bristled. "Yes." He did not elaborate. Instead, he chose to turn around and leave, beelining towards his own office as though it were a sanctuary. Words came easier, but that did not mean they were as easy as they once were. How could he possibly explain why he wanted to be a healer? How the thought of helping others in their time of need might soothe his guilt, his dread, his self-loathing? He wouldn’t explain. He had no need to.

And now, three years after the trials, two after working together in relative dissonance, Draco lay with his back pressed firmly against his childhood rival's chest, and the way the warmth seemed to curl through his skin and lap at his bones almost made him angry. _Why, why, why_ his mind chanted. The rest of the question wouldn't come to him, but just asking _why_ was enough. It was a late spring night, and the weather was fair. But Draco shivered, and Harry, damn him, flung an arm around Draco's midsection, effectively pinning him in place as his nose barely grazed Draco's shoulder blade.

And that was too intimate. At least before Draco could reason it was for warmth, but this… Harry was deeply asleep, and didn’t know what he was doing. If he were conscious, he’d have never done such a thing. Draco tried to slowly, carefully, remove Harry’s arm, but to his dismay, Harry just snuggled in closer, tightening his grip around Draco’s waist and pressing a leg against Draco’s. He could feel Harry’s breath on his spine. He could feel Harry’s hair tickle his neck.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to shout in disgust. He wanted to disapparate far away from these dark ugly woods. He wanted to find a fireplace, and scoot his body as close to the flames as possible, maybe even clamour inside with the logs and soot, to warm up his core, his darkened soul, so he never felt a need like this again.

He wanted to turn and bury his face in Harry’s chest, see if it might warm his nose, his cheeks, his lips, his very eyelashes.

He did none of these things.

Somehow, somehow, somehow, Draco managed to fall asleep.


End file.
